I cannot attest to the Butter Nut Bakery in Metro-Detroit, but according to this sign they are worth risking their shelf-life. I have decided that today, is not the day to find out.

I was warned about leaky valve cover gaskets.  I should have known, oil leaks off of the valves and onto the top hose of the radiator.  Oil causes the organic compounds in rubber to break down, leaving it brittle and prone to cracks.  I was driving home and heard a loud pop which I mistook as a rock hitting the undercarriage.

I managed to park near the house and thought nothing of it.  My neighbor, a line-worker by trade, walked over to me.  He’s knew what happened from the sound of the car, and I knew by my temperature gauge and the plumes of smoke pouring out of the hood – it was something to do with the radiator.

We chatted there – talking about the noise, the leak, the heat, the manifold, and how I was lucky not have blown the head gasket.  I normally don’t have bonding moments with straight men, but this was a real rarity.  We talked about the mechanics of cars, the placement of parts to making it difficult to fix things yourself, and the high cost of labor… all while he held his baby.   The only thing that could have made this a more masculine site is if a child of my own came running asking what the spectacle was all about as I sparked a cigar and explained in kid-terms what a radiator does.

Butchness left at the side-street, I went into the house and dropped off my groceries.  After a quick nelly passive-aggressive phone call to snuff about having the car fixed months ago when he had the time to take into a shop, I cowboyed-up was on my way to the corner gas.  Never above second gear and with the heater and fan cranked all the way so as not to use what coolant was left in the system. 

Maybe it’s because I grew up in the motor city, maybe it’s because I have so many people around me that know about cars, or maybe… I can be butch too.